


There’s No Place Like …

by vega_voices



Series: Come Rain, Come Shine [15]
Category: Murphy Brown (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Idiots in Love, idiots to lovers, some mention of war zone violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-08-06 07:47:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16384103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vega_voices/pseuds/vega_voices
Summary: He couldn’t stay. At least, that was what he kept telling himself.





	There’s No Place Like …

**Title:** There’s No Place Like …  
**Author:** vegawriters  
**Fandom:** Murphy Brown  
**Pairing:** Murphy Brown/Peter Hunt (UST)  
**Rating:** Gen  
**Timeframe:** _Be it Ever so Humboldt_ (season 6)  
**A/N:** There are so many ways to take what happened in the Humboldt episode in season 6.  
**Disclaimer:** You know the drill! Murphy Brown belongs to Diane English, Candice Bergen, and of course Warner Bros. And if they were cool (WB that is) they would release the damn DVDs already. But, hey. Whatever. And by the way, I don’t make any money from this.

 **Summary** : He couldn’t stay. At least, that was what he kept telling himself.

Sleep was the last thing on Peter’s mind. He’d stormed out of the Humboldt ceremony after making an ass of himself and driven around the city before ending up where he suspected most people ended up when they were having a crisis of conscience - at the feet of the Lincoln Memorial. He sat, running his grandfather’s rosary through his fingers, staring at the lights on the water, trying to fend off the disgust that seeped in when he took in the sights and sounds of the so-called most powerful city in the world. He’d been in too many war zones, cities destroyed by the men who strutted through these statues, to ever have a sense of pride and accomplishment about being here. No one wanted the truth. They wanted spoon fed sugar about life around the world, proof that Being An American was the best way to be.

He couldn’t stay. At least, that was what he kept telling himself.

_Hail Mary, full of grace …_

The truth was, he’d started settling into the two bedroom condo he’d bought when he moved to town. Up until this point, his apartments had all been crash pads, places for clothes, spiders, and boxes of notes. But this time, he’d put art on the walls, bought a new cover for the futon, even bought a couple of new pillows. But the roots he’d started to put down weren’t at all anything he could build a foundation on. He wasn’t an anchor. Part of him wanted to be - everyone wanted to be Jim Dial after all - but he wasn’t an anchor. He wasn’t even someone like Frank. He needed to have his hands in the dirt. Not even profiles of fighter pilots breaking the gender barrier or exposes on contaminated drinking water could keep him happy. The stories he was meant to tell weren’t here.

It was a reality that only pissed him off. Because there were plenty of stories here. But Frank and Murphy and even Corky, they had them well in hand. If he could make it work that he was tied to FYI and only reporting from overseas, he’d take it. But he was better sending reports to the network to be roped into whatever show they fit best. He wasn’t meant to be here.

 _… the lord is with thee_.

The Humboldt statue could sit in his condo and gather dust next to his Peabody. It wasn’t like awards protected innocents from bullets or shielded children from bombs.

He needed to get back out there. Coming stateside had been impulsive. And so what if his deepest fears about people thinking he was going soft had been confirmed tonight when his friends had mocked him his new, cushy life. So what if he’d led Corky on by kissing her back - well, she’d been just fine rejecting him, really. So what if Murphy had seen the kiss, a kiss he hated to admit he’d wanted to share with her.

What kind of idiot was he? Murphy Brown hobnobbed with Kissinger and Kennedys. She could call the pope and get an interview. Yes, she’d been banned from the White House, but somehow she still managed to land exclusives with presidents and cabinet members. She dined at the best restaurants and a simple phone call got her into any show in town. Her house was a gallery of the finest art and hand crafted murals. Her wardrobe was a splendor in excellence that cost more than some small countries had in the bank. And under it all, she still somehow played with toys in the office and had season tickets to the Bullets.

What the hell did any of that matter anyway? Just because he’d taken her punch, stayed up late at Phil’s writing copy, survived taunting her on TV, trapped her in a stairwell with donuts, endured the customs line into Israel, stayed up talking all night in a hotel in Jerusalem, and damn near given everything away with comments like how he knew how to take women screaming to new heights and that he’d skipped his prom because of a college age girlfriend.

Didn’t she get it? Hell. He wasn’t sure if he got it. Except that when he’d kissed Corky back tonight, it had been Murphy he’d seen. Then again, maybe it wasn’t so much that she’d been in his mind’s eye but that he’d seen her because he’d opened his eyes and caught her reflection in the mirror, standing in shock behind them.

Yup, good going, Petey.

Good going for what? Was he going back out into the field because he needed to get his hands dirty and report on the good fight or because he needed distance from Murphy?

Hail, Mary indeed.

So what? Maybe that was the push he needed. It was time to stop wallowing. Taking a breath, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and called his agent.

By dawn, he’d be ready to get on a plane.

***

No. She didn’t feel foolish. Much. Then again, she spent so many years apologizing for her behavior to the brass, they were used to her being an idiot even if this time around, they couldn’t brush her behavior off on her drinking. But, it did feel good to win. Even if it had been a long, frustrating night full of Corky being Corky, Frank’s anxiety taking human form, Miles being … weird, and Peter kissing Corky.

Why the hell was that the first thing that came to mind? She should be pissed that she had to share her award with him. But, she wasn’t. In fact, it was kind of an honor. And then he’d ran out of the room and gone where, exactly? Oh screw him.

Weirder, he’d bragged about his college age girlfriend, which her reporters instinct told her was not a coincidence and the internal Dater told her wasn’t anything to obsess over while she obsessed over it, and then she’d come around the corner to watch him wrap his arms around Corky and stick his tongue down her throat.

Yup. Those signals she could have sworn he was sending her were all apparently for Corky. Young, perky, bigger breasted Corky. Which meant his signals were full of crap. Well, have fun, Petey.

She checked on Avery, who woke up the minute she crept into the room. “Mommy?” He held out his arms and she tenderly picked him up, not caring what drool ended up on her dress. It wasn’t like she was wearing this one again anyway. “Mommy won an award tonight, kiddo,” she said as they walked back into her bedroom. Maybe he’d sleep better in her bed. “Really, it’s another hunk of glass that you’ll get to donate somewhere after I’m dead. But it’s a hunk of glass that proves to the world that your old mom still has it, which she was starting to wonder so you’ll give her this one, okay?”

Settling her exhausted son down in the middle of her bed, Murphy sank into the chair at her vanity to pull off her boots. She pulled her hair free, wiped the makeup from her face, and shrugged out of a dress that really, she hadn’t felt comfortable in all night. It wasn’t her usual look - she liked off the shoulder numbers, fabrics that clung just a bit. Something that could show off that even if she had stretch marks, at least her waist was back. Once, men had flocked to her. Now she wore draping fabrics that hid her figure. After all, there wasn’t anything perky about her.

Unlike Corky.

God. Why the hell was she obsessing over this?

She hung the dress up and pulled on a pair of favorite pjs with ducks and a white t-shirt. Avery was playing with her stuffed cow.

“Your mom used to be quite the catch, little man.” She sighed and leaned back against the pillows. “It’s actually the reason you’re here. Your dad couldn’t stay away from me.” She stroked his hair. “Tonight was silly, kiddo. And I’ll probably get spanked at work tomorrow. But it feels good to know people are still paying attention to my work.” Avery just looked at her and she chuckled. “But you know what, Avery? It still pales in comparison to this right here. But don’t tell anyone. Let it be our secret.” He blurbled and crawled up to lie down on her pillow. She smiled and curled up around him. “Good idea.”

But she couldn’t sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Peter’s panicked expression as he invaded her personal space right before their names were called. She knew that look. It was the same one he’d given her the night she’d punched him, back when she challenged him and proved his macho thing was just a cover.

Well. Hopefully Corky could free him from his confines.

Okay, that was far more bitter than she intended. She stretched out, reached for a book, and read until her eyes finally closed.

***

He wasn’t sure why he was still here in her office, countless hours after she’d asked if she could shut the door, but here he was, still staring into her blue eyes, still unsure as to what was going on. But he was here. And for as much as he knew he wanted to be on that plane in the morning, he also didn’t want to leave. It was something he wasn’t sure what to do with.

Around 9:00, somewhere between the second and third piece of pizza, the wall came down. “There was this little boy,” he said. “I was filming my report and the gunfire started and I watched him get shot. Just grabbed him and ran, you know. I don’t even know if he made it. They just took him from me. I still have the shirt I was wearing though, it’s still got his blood on it. I can’t seem to get rid of it.”

Murphy surprised him. She reached behind her and pulled a photo of three little girls out of a notebook. “I was in Vietnam in 1970,” she said. “These little girls used to play outside the house where all the reporters in Saigon were living. One day, the army lobbed a grenade at them. At us, really. But we were just playing with the girls. The army was assuming we were feeding information to the enemy.” She stared at him. “I’m sorry about the kid.”

“I …”

“War zones suck, Peter. And you’re pretty damn brave for going back in. Pretty stupid too, but I admire the guts.”

“What made you get out? I mean, you’ve gone in but …”

She put the picture back in the notebook and closed the pizza lid. “I was in South Africa when Steve Biko was murdered and I just … the weight of everything felt like it wouldn’t stop. So I came back here and straightened my hair and still got to report on world events, but it didn’t feel completely useless.”

The silence of confession sat between them.

“Don’t be a stranger,” she said. “There’s always a chair for you at the desk. It’s okay to admit when it’s time to get out. Ducking bullets is for the young or the stupid. And the assholes you call buddies, the ones making fun of you for taking that desk job, they’re doing it because they’re full of crap. It’s not even about jealousy. It’s because they’re full of crap. I know because I used to be like that. So if you want to slow it down, no one but you can judge you properly.”

The tension in the office built and Peter reached across the desk, almost taking her hand, but he knew if he touched her, he might make the move he’d been thinking of making all day. What then? A goodbye kiss? A fuck in her office? Wham, bam, thanks for the memories?

No. He wanted to touch her, wanted to tell her that kissing Corky hadn’t meant a damn thing to him.

Instead, he stood up. It was time to go.

“I’ll see you, Murphy.”

“Stay safe, Peter.” She smiled at him, a gentle, genuine smile, and he stepped out of her office and headed back to pack up the last of his things.


End file.
